


Oceans Away From Who We Are

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A circle of Satanists in Alabama is preparing a ritual and doesn't even have the decency to be coy about it, the Winchesters try to save a few teenagers while laying low and battling their own issues, and as usual, things go somewhat south. - Established Sam/Dean, set in current canon (after 7.07, but before 7.09).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Когда-то мы были другими (перевод фика geckoholic "Oceans Away From Who We Are")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/712675) by [sea_star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_star/pseuds/sea_star)



> Based on an art prompt made by lightthesparks; all her artwork for this fic can be found [HERE](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/79260.html).
> 
> Smilla02 held my hand, cheered me on, calmed me down every time I successfully convinced myself that this whole thing is a big, stinking pile of crap, gave incredibly helpful pointers, and nudged me whenever I got stuck. Basically, this fic wouldn't exist without her. ♥ And it would've been decidedly less porny without the involvement of cocoaphonic, who had to suffer through several test-versions of the smutty parts of this fic; which is only fair, by the way, seeing as she's the main reason I've embraced the brother porn in the first place. Also, many thanks to Anna, and to emilia8388 for the speedy last minute G+S sweep. All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "More Than Fine" by Switchfoot.

Satanists. As if it's not enough that they had to deal with witches recently, now it's Satanists. Doesn't mankind trust monsters and ghosts to do the job anymore? Do they have to add their stake in making the world a miserable place? It's no news, sure, where there's power and dark magic there are people abusing it, always have been, but sometimes Dean feels like it's all they're doing now. Maybe that's what happens when you prevent one apocalypse too many, but Dean keeps asking himself why he's still fighting it and coming away empty.

Fate really is a bitch.

Wondering about that is relatively pointless, though, so Dean settles for dealing with the problem right in front of him: a circle of Satanists spread out over several counties in Alabama is preparing a ritual and doesn't even have the decency to be coy about it. As of now, they have no idea what that crap is about, but when the devil worshipers team up, it can't possibly mean anything good.

They're holed up in another one of these fucking abandoned houses, Sam's glued to his laptop, Bobby's hitting the books back at Rufus's cabin, and Dean's feeling a little useless. Sure, he could offer up his assistance, but in a battle of research-fu, he's bound to draw the short straw. Team Geek's got that covered just fine; if the answer's out there, they'll find it.

And because feeling superfluous isn't something Dean's particularly fond of, he decides to relocate. Nothing's actually happened so far, there's no one to interview except for the Satanists, which they haven't found yet, and that means the winner's the bar around the corner.

"Hey, Sammy, mind if I go out for a while? I'll catch us something to eat on my way back."

The answer comes as a grunt and a wave. That's how absorbed in his research Sam is, and Dean grabs jacket and car keys before Sam has a chance to catch on with the purpose of Dean's feigned supply run.

Two hours later Dean's back without any food but with about a dozen shots in his system, and Sam's face falls as soon as he lays eyes on him. "Seriously?" is all Sam says, preemptively holding up his hands before Dean can even get a bitchy reply in.

Which Dean didn't plan to do, actually; fighting's so not what he's in the mood for. He sits down on the bed, pats the space next to him, and says "Come here," in what he hopes is a somewhat inviting tone.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, but complies. He even joins in as Dean leans in to kiss him and they go down backwards onto the mattress together, but when Dean clumsily shoves his hand underneath Sam's shirt, Sam draws back.

"Forget it, I'm not fucking you when you're wasted."

"Since when?"

"Since now. Get off me." With that, he's gone, back to the laptop, and Dean's left staring at the empty space where Sam's body had been just seconds ago.

 

***

 

Dean opens his eyes to a still-dark room and groans. His head is pounding, and there's a foul taste in his mouth. Same old, all in all.

Sam's already awake next to him, their sleep schedules finally in tune with each other after they've both taken a trip to hell. He's eying Dean warily. "You don't have to puke, do you?"

"I don't do puking."

A snort. "Of course you don't. Does your stomach even still register alcohol at this point?"

"Fuck you." Dean gets out of bed gingerly, mindful of his headache, and starts for the shower under Sam's scrutinizing glare. And yeah, he gets it, why Sam's so fed up with him. His brother's the one with Lucifer giving guest performances in his head, but he's _okay_ while Dean's barely holding on, tries to glue himself back together on a daily basis with the help of cheap booze.

But hey, just another screw-up. Add it to the list; it'll hardly make a difference.

He closes his eyes against his own thoughts - _quit whining, man_ \- and shuts the bathroom door behind himself. He sheds his clothes, just drops them wherever they fall, gets the water running and lets painfully hot water clear his head.

By the time Dean's done and leaves the bathroom framed by a cloud of steam, Sam's up as well. He's booting his laptop, the ever-so-annoying 'ping' it gives when it starts up echoing in the otherwise quiet room, and Dean's reminded that there's a case to be worried about. "Found anything yesterday?"

"Yes and no. True to form, I found a chat room where our merry little circle plots their evil meetings, but it's by invitation only and surprisingly well secured. Can't get in. But the design of the site is interesting." He points at the screen even though Dean's not close enough to really see anything. "Some of the symbols and sigils they used look legit. I emailed Bobby a few screenshots, he's checking them right now."

Yeah, just as Dean thought. Team Geek's doing perfectly well without his involvement.

He hates cases like this. It's all books and websites and trying to find just the right hint to point to the next; nothing tangible, nothing real for him to do, no adrenaline, not even anyone to talk to. He's better out there; in here, he feels tacked on.

But there's not much to do for either of them while Bobby's busy trying to find out what the symbols mean, so for a little while he's at least got the comfort that Sam's not being very useful either. They watch each other not do much of anything for a few awkward moments, both not talking about last night, until Dean's had enough and suggests going out for breakfast.

"I gotta stay on the computer, wait for Bobby to get back to us," Sam replies.

"Dude, it's a laptop. You can pack it up and carry it 'round, that's what it's meant for. Let's go."

 

***

 

The busy atmosphere in the diner eases the tension a little, partly maybe because it's a public place and therefore rules out topics like alcoholism or sex or the effect one has on the other. They fall into an easy banter as they wait for their food to arrive.

It's not the brothers-and-hunters-part of their relationship that they have a problem with lately. After the whole Amy-dilemma, they fell back into step with each other quickly; way quicker than Dean would've thought. It's the, well, actual relationship. Between Cas almost ending the world and then dying on them, Sam hallucinating, Dean keeping secrets and the ongoing dispute about Dean's coping mechanism of choice, it's almost non-existent.

They've made yet another promise that they wouldn't keep anything from each other again, both of them, and yet it's obvious that neither is being fully honest. Sam keeps insisting he's fine even though he sometimes flinches at his own reflection in the mirror, and Dean, yeah, by now they both know he's lying to Sam's face every time he denies that there's anything wrong with him.

Maybe it was luck more than either of them being really all that good at relationships, but if you discount the obvious throwbacks, this thing between them had always been surprisingly easy. They had started out when Sam was seventeen, and the suddenness of it stunned Dean right out of any doubts. It's been a new thing for him, but Sam, as he kept telling him, had wanted it since, like, ever. His intent and stubbornness had prevented the monumental freak out Dean had kinda felt he was obligated to have.

Stanford was a kick in the nuts, but in-between the shouting and the crying, Sam somehow managed to get the message across that it was something he just had to do own his own, not something he did to get away from Dean. Afterwards they fell back into it without any real effort, and whatever else kept nagging at them, Dad's death, Dean's deal, it never reached their core.

But then came Dean's stint in hell and the apocalypse and the cage and Sam with no soul, and while it's probably just as well that having spent time in the pit would fuck everything up and bonking your brother isn't supposed to be easy anyway, Dean couldn't help but finding that a little unfair.

So much has been taken from them, and they had to lose this along the way, too.

Deep thoughts to have over coffee and omelets, so Dean shakes his head a little and tries to clear them away. He watches his brother from under his lashes instead. Sam doesn't notice, busy with his plate and his laptop and not kicking either off the table.

"You know, if you don't reply to him immediately, he'll probably just call. Like he always does."

Sam scowls, the one that's reserved for when Dean really doesn't _get_ his reasons; a little unfair an expression to use in the beginning of a conversation. "Yeah, he will. I, just. It makes me nervous to know they're plotting something on that site and we have no idea what it is."

"Maybe it's not that bad. For all we know, they might just discuss which brand of black eyeliner lasts the longest."

"Do you really think that? As if it's ever that simple. It's you who's constantly pointing out that being a Winchester comes with always running into the worst scenario possible."

And yeah, Sam's got a point there. Winchester luck doesn't have much to do with luck at all, don't he know it. "Exceptions prove the rule. Come on, put that thing aside and eat your pancakes. Whatever it is they're planning, it's not gonna happen within the next fifteen minutes."

Sam shoots him a look, but he closes the laptop and picks up his fork.

 

***

 

The email arrives just after Dean killed the engine in front of the house, alongside with a call. Dean hardly gets the first syllable of his greeting out before Bobby demands to be put on speaker phone.

"Got the email open?"

Sam turns the laptop around and angles it up a little so Dean can see the screen. It shows a pentagram, one point down and two up, the head of a goat drawn into the shape of it. Around the symbol itself are two concentric circles containing smaller symbols. "Yeah," Dean confirms. "So, what are we lookin' at?"

"The Sigil Of Bathomet. Sam said you guys found it on a satanic website, which isn't all that unusual, it's one of their official symbols. Assholes even have copyright on it." Bobby pauses, there's the noise of him puttering around with his notes, a mumbled curse when something drops to the ground. Dean smiles. "Anyway, what's odd about this one is that it's not white lines on a black background, which is the version of the Sigil that bullshit satanic church claimed as its own, it's black on white background, and looks hand-drawn."

"Which means?"

"It's an older interpretation. Before it became a satanic trademark, the pentagram standing on one point already stood for the Goat of Mendes, an old Egyptian symbol. Later, it was used as a symbol for iniquity, perdition and blasphemy, the goat threatening heaven. Still satanic in origin, but the cult you're dealing with is probably not, uh, official."

Dean's known Bobby long enough to tell when he's dancing around something, and he's fairly certain now that there's more to the story. "What else?"

A heavy sigh on the line, and Dean can practically see him adjusting his cap, maybe even scratching his skull. "The smaller symbols in the circle? Hebrew. And one of the translations is 'Leviathan'."

"You've gotta be kidding me. Seriously?"

Sam chimes in. "Possible translation? So you're not sure?"

"No. Might be related to the purgatory-escapees we're dealing with, might be a coincidence. I'll keep digging, but all I can do now is guess."

"Okay. Thanks, man." Sam waits for Bobby's reply, then slides the phone shut and looks at Dean, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe it's really just a coincidence," he offers.

Dean lets himself fall back into the leather of the driver's seat. "When is it ever with us? Shit luck, remember?"

 

***

 

Benched again while Sam gives hacking the website another go, Dean goes for an actual supply run. When he leaves, Sam throws him a look that clearly communicates how much trust he has in Dean to limit himself to getting food and beverages. "Try not to go astray in a bottle this time, yeah? That's gettin' old."

"Whatever."

It's got something to do with pride that Dean doesn't even pick up any liquor at the gas station. Strolling through the shelves he just gathers some snacks, a six-pack, and a big bottle of Coke before he walks up to the checkout. While he waits for the clerk to come out of the back office, a flyer tacked onto a pinboard behind the cash register catches his attention.

The sheet of paper looks home-printed, the anonymized photo of a teenage boy dressed in black with a date and address written underneath it, and it invites whoever's interested to the meeting of a parent support group. Dean scribbles the details on the back of his receipt after he's paid and heads back to the house.

Sam actually looks surprised that Dean got back within roundabout fifteen minutes, and downright mortified when he sees the grin on Dean's face. "What's up with you?"

The fact that Sam's alarmed by a cheerful Dean says something about the state of both their life and their relationship that Dean doesn't want to examine too closely. He tosses his bag of groceries at Sam and pulls out the receipt. "Found us a clue."

"Ah," says Sam, looks from Dean's face to the small sheet of paper, waiting for an explanation.

"Apparently the clustering of devil worshipers didn't go unnoticed. There's a group for worried parents that meets three times a week in the community center a few towns over."

 

***

 

Lenlock Community Center possesses about as much charm as brimstone and looks the part, too; a dirty white, elongated square made of cement panels, not even any windows on the side facing the street. A couple of trees and hatches planted in a triangle up front and lining the way to the glass front entrance don't do anything to make it look more inviting.

The concerned parents they're here to interview start gathering before the appointed time of the meeting. Occultism appears to be a real popular past time for the kids around here, judging from the number of adults present, but Dean assumes that's more due to higher awareness and got less to do with an actual increase of troubled kids. Like how after school shootings, suddenly a lot of parents get afraid of what their kids might do unsupervised; if a problem's well-known, you see it more easily. Or sometimes, you even see a problem where there isn't one.

Sam seeks out the group leader, serves her some bullshit about investigating the possibility of a cult forming in the area, and comes back with the invitation to join the meeting and the promise to get a list of the members afterwards.

Most of the meeting consists of somewhat panicked parents sharing their worries about kids that might or might not be flirting with disaster, but the case of one Charlotte Deveraux seems more promising. Her mother goes on about the sudden shift in her teenage daughter's wardrobe towards dark and black and questionable make up choices like all the others, but when she starts mentioning a chat room and late night gatherings Charlotte keeps sneaking out for, Sam and Dean start to listen more attentively.

After the meeting, over coffee and home-made cookies, they talk to her. Or in fact, Sam does, while Dean sips his coffee and tries to look as competent and encouraging as possible.

"Until about a month ago, Charlotte was just a normal High School girl. She's gotten into the cheerleader squad this year as a back-up, but she's been so excited, and she had her first boyfriend." She pours herself another cup of coffee, looks at Sam and Dean questioningly.

Sam nods, and she fills his cup, too. "What happened a month ago, Mrs. Deveraux?"

"The boy broke up with her. She was really upset about it, and shortly after she came home with a girl I haven't seen before, introduced her as Karen." She wrinkles her nose at the name. "And that's when it all started. That girl's one of them, and she drew my Charlotte in."

"Do you know Karen's last name?"

Mrs. Deveraux shakes her head and shrinks back into her seat, as if they accused her of committing some parental faux-pas.

Sam sees his opening and dives right in. "Any chance we could have a look at Charlotte's room while she's at school tomorrow, see if we find something that can point us to the root of the problem, something you might've overlooked?"

 

***

 

Charlotte's room doesn't reflect any of the changes her mother claims she's going through. It's a fairly regular teen's room as far as Dean can tell, still fits the well-adjusted, happy teenager her mother described from before she befriended her new clique. It's all bright colors, yellow and pink and light blue, and he's just sifting through a drawer filled with neatly kept exercise books as Sam claps a hand down onto the girl's desk in triumph. He's been busy checking her computer, and apparently he's found something.

"What've you got?"

"I just opened her browser and went through her history, and she _is_ a member of the website. But, you know what's even better?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

Sam spins around in the desk chair to face Dean, smug grin on his face. "She's saved her password. Guess who's currently logged in and going through the threads?"

And it's a goldmine, pretty much. All that's missing is a member's list - the nicknames don't really help them out here in the real world - but everything else they could wish for is there: a calendar with events in each town, threads regarding spells and rituals, both already done and planned for the future, sources where they get their supplies, photos from past gatherings. Sam prints out some of it, writes down whatever else he thinks could be useful, and makes a note of her password for future reference.

 

***

 

"A blood spell? They really jumped in on the deep end." Dean leans at the cabinet by the door, ankles crossed and hands used to support himself against it. He tries to not find the way Sam's sitting cross-legged on the bed in just his boxers and something that used to be a t-shirt roughly ten years ago all too distracting.

They're working. He's a professional, and judging from the way Sam glared at him all afternoon while he slowly emptied yet another bottle, he's not going to get any, anyway.

So, work. Being professional. It's not like he's frustrated or something.

The data from the website left them with information - time and place included - on a gathering the following weekend, an important one too, but that isn't going to do them much good. Because the cult protected the building in question with a warding spell; it makes sure that no one who didn't participate in the first part of the ritual - a blood spell performed by several smaller groups of the cult at the same time - can enter the building.

"Yeah, big time blood spell," Sam says, looking like he's about to throw his laptop at the nearest wall in frustration. "Knowing they're planning something huge and not getting in is kinda worse than not knowing anything."

“Okay, let's look at this systematically,” offers Dean, pointedly ignoring Sam's raised eyebrow. “No real hints in the threads?”

Sam shakes his head. “Apparently they announce the meat of it at the gatherings.”

“Alright, and the building for the ritual is protected. But what about the places they use for those gatherings?”

“Oh. I dunno, let me check.” Some clicking, then Sam looks up to Dean and grins. “Nope. They use them to draw new members in, so they're pretty much free -for-all.”

“One upcoming?”

“Yeah. In Weaver, tomorrow night.”

 

***

 

If they'd had to choose a place to listen in on a satanic cult while staying out of sight themselves, it couldn't have been more perfect than the old barn in Weaver. A second floor that used to be the storage space for hay or corn or whatever gives them a prime view on the happenings in the center, and because the old, decrepit wooden structures are pretty much see-through from above, they don't even have to risk an open hatchway .

The gathering they picked doesn't seem to be a big one; five teenagers in everyday wear sitting in the dirt while a woman in a plain black robe blabbers on about a new way of life and a mission from their dark lord. Said dark lord isn't present, and Dean doubts that the robe-wearer is very high up the food chain herself. Slim body, fancy black heeled boots peeking out from under the robe; he bets on another teenager. She sprouts a lot of sententious crap, designed to bait newbies into the heavier stuff, before her blathering finally circles to a more interesting topic.

“And you picked an excellent time to join us, too. Our high priest has been preparing a ritual to summon the dark lord for weeks now, and the time has come! This weekend, it's going to happen!” Dramatic pause, and it extracts the token ah's and oh's from her circle. “But to make sure that all participants are devoted to the cause, we have to do a little spell. Nothing big, really, all I need is a drop of blood from each of you.”

Despite some murmurs and spooked looks, the teenagers nod when they're addressed by name and asked if they'd like to participate in the ritual. Peer pressure, no one wants to be the killjoy. Cheerful as they come, the girl in the robe congratulates them to their decision. “Very good! Now, could you step forward, one after another?” She produces a needle and points to a table with herbs and a bowl in the back of the barn. “After that, I'll mix the blood with the other ingredients and perform the spell, and then we'll be done for today.”

Beside Dean, Sam digs around in his pockets and comes up with a notepad and a pen to write down the spell. “Do you think that's the blood spell they went on about on the website?” he whispers, and Dean just shrugs in response. It's not Latin or anything else that Dean's vaguely fluid in, but Sam scribbles along anyway; they can figure that out later.

 

***

 

Back at the house, they give Bobby another call, describing the ritual and reading the scribbling, and Sam parks himself in front of his laptop.

Same old, only this time Dean decides to do something useful with his time. They rushed back from the barn after the teenagers left, Sam pressing that the ritual must be the key to the bigger picture of the cult, but Dean figures it can't hurt to give it another sweep. “I'm going out,” he announces.

Sam's on his feet so fast, he almost knocks over the chair. “You're fucking not!”

“Come again?”

“You're not knocking yourself out again tonight, not if I have a say in it. _Jesus_ , Dean why don't you just -”

“Just _what_? Sit down on the bed with you, so we can have a heart-to-heart, hug, and move on? It's not that kind of problem, Sam.” He takes a few steps towards Sam, makes his voice as deep and gruff as he can for what he's going to say next. “Besides, you don't have a say in it.”

Marching right past the rejection, Sam leaches onto another part of Dean's reply. “So you admit there's a problem?”

“Of course there's a problem! Cas, Leviathans, the devil in your noggin, have you even been around for the past few weeks?” Dean's shouting the last part, and damn if that doesn't feel good.

“That's not what I mean, and you know it.” Sam walks towards him as he says that, voice calm and low. “Why won't you talk to me? I'm here. Amy happened, and yeah, running then was a probably mistake, but I'm not going to do that again. I'm here now, and I won't leave again. Ever.”

Not the point. Dean doesn't quite know what the point _is_ ; he's mainly just tired and exhausted and at the end of his rope, not even running on fumes anymore, but on sheer force of will. But he gets that Sam won't leave. Storm off; be dramatic, yeah, but not bail out of it all for good. They're in this together, Dean gets that. He knows all that, but he feels attacked - cornered. He wants to lash out, and to dig into a topic Sam laid on the table is easier than going with the truth. “Damn straight, it's been a mistake. Then again, running's what you're good at, Sam, isn't it?”

“Seriously? That one again?”

“Hey, you stop doing it, I stop bringing it up.”

Sam's so close now, all he needs is one more step and they'll be chest to chest. He takes it, then another, and forces Dean to step back towards the wall. Dean practically bounces off it a little because he didn't quite see it coming, what with walking backwards and all, and Sam puts a hand on Dean's jaw. He holds him in place, leans in to kiss him, quick, but thorough, catches Dean's upper lip between his teeth for a moment when he breaks it, then fixes Dean with his gaze. “Fine: I am. Not going. To run. You can talk to me, you can tell me anything, and I won't run.”

And that's too much. All of a sudden, the room is too small, charged with too much energy, too many emotions floating around in it. Dean wants to take the invitation he's been given, let Sam prove what he just said in a way that involves sweat and naked skin, but he can't. He needs to get of here, and now. “Lemme go,” he hisses, wriggles himself out of from under his brother's freakishly large, broad body.

Sam's face falls, but he backs off. “Is begging you going to help? Please, Dean, stay here, don't go, don't get yourself drunk, just tonight?”

“No, it isn't. And for your information: Wasn't planning on it, I wanted to go and see if I can find any useful leftovers at the barn. Might have to reconsider that now.” Dean grabs his jacket and keys, shoulders his way past Sam to the door, and doesn't wait for a reply.

 

***

 

Of course he doesn't reconsider; Dean's ready to admit that his coping mechanisms aren't ideal or healthy, but he won't let them get in the way of a case.

He does think about a trip to the nearest bar if he doesn't find anything it, though, if only to get the smell of booze and smoke on his clothes to keep Sam guessing. If that's immature and petty, then so be it.

The barn is abandoned when he gets there, the table that held the bowl and the herbs is gone, footprints on the floor and rumpled heaps of old hay remain the sole evidence that someone's been here lately. Unwilling to give up that fast, Dean rummages around in the layer of hay that covers the whole barn.

He half-hobbles, half-crawls forward slowly, flashlight between his teeth while he lets his hands thread through the dirt and hay, and after a while h's rewarded with a couple of leaves left behind in a corner. The smell vaguely resembles sage and he doesn't remember it from earlier; he assumes it must be from a previous gathering.

Dean hobbles through the rest of the barn in the same manner, but nothing else is to be found, so he heads back to the house.

 

***

 

Awkward isn't a strong enough word to describe the atmosphere between him and Sam when he presents his findings. They don't look each other in the eye, and go out of their way to avoid contact as they sit down on Sam's bed together to give the leaves a closer look.

Sam sniffs them, then holds one up to inspect it. “You're right, it smells a little like sage.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“I might have. Wait a second.” He makes a grab for the laptop, types something into the search bar of his browser. “Yeah, there it is. Diviner's Sage, or Salvia Divinorum. Psychoactive any way you ingest it; chewing, smoking, pick your poison. Legal, you can get it in any herb shop, and it's effective too.

“Please tell me you didn't pick up that bit of info at college.” Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean allows himself a small, mischievous smile. “Define 'psychoactive'.”

“Well, tripping and the like, but it's also known for inducing trance-like states. Shamans used it to produce visions.”

“So a cult of satanic teens goes and gets themselves high. How surprising.”

“There might be more behind it. Rumor has it that, if you know how to do it, it can be used for, uh, reprogramming. Mind control.”

“Wonderful , so that ominous high priest has them under the influence to...do what, exactly?”

Sam frowns. “Hey, I know just as much as you do. For the ritual? To keep them in line? Get them hooked in the first place? I mean, it'd be a way to explain the unusually high rate of teen Satanists in the area.”

“Guess we might know more when Bobby gets back to us about the ritual.”

“Yeah.”

Out of hunt-related topics, the awkwardness comes back. Dean gets up, figures a little space between them might help. They stare at anything but each other for a moment.

“Dean, about earlier -”

Not enough time has passed since the fight, and they've been through the same dance enough times for Dean to know that warming it up right now will make matters worse. He's still somewhat pissed, and Sam's simmering as well, no doubt. “I don't wanna hear about it now, okay? How about we call it a day and talk tomorrow?”

It's a peace offering, a truce, Dean will block the conversation again tomorrow if Sam brings it up and they both know it, but Sam nods anyway.

 

***

 

Bobby calls early the next morning, and the ring tone rouses Dean from his sleep. Sam's already up, shirt wet with sweat from the run he went on while Dean was dead to the world, and he's on the phone before Dean can even locate it, picks it up and sets it on speakerphone.

“Hey, found something?” Sam asks without preamble.

“Good morning to you, too,” comes the grumble from the other end of the line. “But yeah, that spell of yours? Sanskrit. Amateur work, but of the highly dangerous sort.”

“How?”

“It's like these instruction manuals written in China or Japan or wherever. The words are right, but don't make much sense. Your, say, _notes_ in phonetic script didn't help much either.”

Sam makes a face. “Yeah, sorry, next time I'll bring a dictaphone.”

“Not a bad idea, if you ask me. Bottom line, though, seems like they're planning a human sacrifice.”

And just like that, Dean's wide awake. “Human sacrifice? They're going to kill someone?”

“That's usually what it means, yeah.” Bobby doesn't add an insult, but Dean can hear one anyway. “The spell you gave me is only the first half, meant to swear its participants to the main event, but it hints at giving a life over to a higher being later on. Whom or what, we gotta find out.”

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. “So, it _was_ the blood spell mentioned on the website, to unlock the warding spell.”

And fuck, yes, Dean's almost forgotten about that. “Guess party-bombing the big ritual this weekend is gonna be a little complicated, then.”

“Complicated, but not impossible. And on the upside, I doubt the Leviathans have any hand in a something so sloppy, haven't found any more hints in that direction either. I'll call you back, okay?”


	2. Chapter 2

To their left, a cat shrieks, causes something metallic to topple over, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. "Fuck!"

"Bit jumpy, are we?" The look Sam gives him telegraphs as much disapproval as concern, and the fact that they're in the back alley of an industrial park, trying to keep a couple of misguided teenagers from doing something stupid, might just be the only thing that keeps Sam from launching into another lecture about drinking on the job. Sam's own damn fault, Dean'd be more likely to lay off the bottle if Sam would stop picking fights.

Either way, Dean chooses not to grace that with a response. He re-adjusts the grip on his machete and proceeds to ignore Sam. They both brought machetes and a backpack full of cleaning agents to be prepared for Leviathans; apart from the sigil, nothing else pointed to their involvement, but better safe than sorry. Sam and Bobby came up with a counter spell to the cult's blood spell that's supposed to gain them access to the ritual, some kind of incantation, but they won't know for sure about that until they try it.

"Did you see the sigil yet?" Apparently, Sam doesn't care about being ignored.

"No. If I had, I'd have made sure to inform you." Dean rolls his eyes in the dark.

Sam knows Dean well enough to predict his reaction without seeing it and frowns, but then he freezes and bats at Dean's shoulder to get his attention. "There."

Dean follows Sam's gaze, and yeah, there it is, the Sigil of Bathomet, same as on the website only larger, drawn onto a sliding door. It's hastily smeared, just the mark to consecrate the building and show the participants of the ritual that they've reached their destination; the real deal will be inside.

As Dean turns towards Sam to ask him if he's got the incantation ready, he notices movement in the periphery of his vision, but it's too late. Two of the cult members grab him from behind, another pries the machete from his grip. He barely got enough time to shout a warning to Sam before he's knocked out.

 

***

 

When Dean comes to, he's lying on the cold, damp floor of a warehouse; likely the one they got caught in front of. His arms are bound behind his back, so tight the rope's scraping his skin, and his ankles are bound too. He tries to wiggle his hands, but that only causes the rope to bite deeper into the flesh of his wrists.

Sam lies beside him, and Dean prods at him, but he's still out cold.

Dean takes a look around. They're lying in a circle of ash, odd dried flowers and blood while the whole cult stares at them, holds each other by the hand and mumbles mumbo-jumbo that sounds vaguely like the spell from the barn; like the same language, anyway.

The room itself is empty except for the cult members, about ten of them from what Dean can see. The walls are partly veiled with black fabric, the sigil embroidered on it several times, and it smells like mildew and sage. A few bowls are placed in each corner, smoke spiraling from them, and Dean guesses they contain the same leaves he found at the barn. It seems to take effect with the teenagers; they look thoroughly stoned.

The unholy class reunion has clearly noticed that Dean's awake, but doesn't react to it. Dean watches helplessly as one of their high priests or some shit, a huge, bulky guy dressed in a long, black robe decorated with cryptic, white, golden and red embroidery, walks up to the makeshift altar. They misused a wooden crate, decorated it with a black cloth, candles, a human and a goat's skull and a small stack of books. Another bowls gives of smoke, and above it is the sigil again, smeared in blood.

There's more mumbling, but the low murmur from before starts to get louder. It's not a whispered sing-song anymore. The chant slowly swells to a shout, and Dean figures it's high time to come up with a strategy to get out of here; he's heard a lot of rituals and spells, and he knows when someone means business. He struggles against his restraints again, by principle alone, but whoever tied them up knew what he was doing. Without a knife or a lighter, he's not getting out of this, and he can reach neither his pockets nor Sam's. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees their machetes and guns, carelessly thrown into a corner, but there's no way to get to them before he's out of his ropes.

At the altar, the priest finishes up, throws some more of the dried flowers into the bowl and then turns back around. He gestures a little, which makes his followers become even louder, and then he zones in on Dean.

Which can't mean anything good. Just because he prefers to not go down quietly, Dean starts throwing insults and threats at the priest, who's completely unimpressed, doesn't as much as slow his walk. And then he's right there, grabbing Dean by his short hair and hoisting him into a sitting position.

Most of the time, monologuing villains annoy Dean something awful, but right now he misses that kind of underlying narrative. He'd like to know what's about to go down; brace himself and try to plan ahead.

The priest kneels in front of him and draws a knife from somewhere under his robe, a beautiful old thing with a wooden handle and carvings all over the blade, and Dean's pretty sure there are more useful things for his brain to do right now than fawn over the weapon that's likely going to kill him. Working out an escape route, for example.

Two cult members appear on either side of him, drawing his overshirt back, and help to hold him in position. The priest cuts his shirt down in the front, and Dean almost isn't surprised when the tip of the blade bites into the skin on his stomach. Evil's nothing if not predictable, and he kinda expected that to happen as soon as he saw the knife. What he didn't expect was the purpose of the cutting: he's not being gutted. In fact, he's barely being nicked, whatever the priest's doing doesn't even hurt much. Tempted to be relieved, Dean chances a look, and oh, what the fuck?

That asshole is carving symbols into his skin. Small, contoured symbols that look like letters and the ever-present pentagram, and Dean's hovering between being freaked out and strangely affronted. The latter would probably make a rather profound statement about just how strange their lives are, but here and now's not the time to give that much thought.

As Dean's busy looking up and down between the priest and his stomach, Sam stirs against his back; imperceptibly, the only reason Dean's noticing it is their proximity. The movement goes right by the cult members, transfixed by the ritual as they are, and Dean dares to hope. Sam's in a much better position than Dean was, Dean's back pocket perfectly within the reach of his bound hands now that Dean's sitting, and Dean senses how Sam's hand inches slowly towards his thigh, up, and reaches into the pocket to dig for his lighter. Once he's got a steady grasp on it, Sam lights it and throws it the short distance to the end of the priests robe. The fabric catches fire immediately, and the priest jumps backwards, shrieking.

His followers fall over themselves to help him, and in the resulting confusion, Dean and Sam manage to quickly disentangle each other from their restraints. By the time the cult finally turns its attention back to them, they're free, upright, and ready to fight their way out.

The first to come at them is the priest, robe still smoldering but determination unbroken, and he's also the first to go down; Dean throws a well-aimed punch to the head, and he's out like a light. Without their leader, the teenagers morph from a single-minded cult to a group of confused kids, some still half-hardheartedly trying to get at Sam and Dean and continue the ritual, some retreating. One of them makes a run for the altar and begins to read something aloud.

As soon as she's gotten the first few words out, Sam's cursing next to Dean. “Fuck, no,” he says and leaves Dean's side to try and stop her.

“What is it, what's she doing?” shouts Dean, and Sam stops mid-step to turn back around to him.

“I recognized a name she just said, and I think I know what they're summoning.”

“So, care to share that knowledge with me?”

 

Sam's face is scrunched up in distress, something close to the expression he gives when he's in actual physical pain. “The dogs of Yama.”

“Wait, what? Yama? As in, the dogs guarding Naraka?” The lore of the Great King Yama and his abode Naraka is something they're both familiar with from the year before Dean's deal came due; it's pretty much the eastern equivalent to hell. The dogs of Yama are their version of hellhounds. “Fuck!”

Before Sam can answer, the girl by the altar drops the book, mad grin on her face and gaze fixed to a point at the opposite side of the room. A growl erupts that makes the rest of the teenagers squeal and head for the exits, but it's too late; the hound gets hold of one of them. Her blood spatters the faces of some of her friends, and brings the room to full-on panic.

Dean's frozen to the spot for a moment, caught between panic and bad memories and indecision about how to proceed, until Sam shouts his name. While Sam knocks the girl out and starts shouting something akin to the spell she just read, Dean makes a dash for his machete, starts slashing blindly at the blank spots where he assumes the hound to be.

The only evidence that he manages to wound it are blood stains on the machete and he doubts it's enough to stop the hellhound, but if Sam knows what he's doing - and he sure looks like he does - then all Dean's got to do is keep it occupied for a while.

Sam's still shouting in Sanskrit when Dean gets thrown into the wall by the hound. His head bounces off it as the thing moves in to squash him, and he loses consciousness.

 

***

 

When Dean's brain comes back online, he wishes it'd just shut right back down.

They're back at the house, but that's about it with the good news as far as Dean's concerned. He's lying on the bed, and his entire body itches and tingles and stings at the same time, a sensation that feels like it's coming from the inside and emanating outwards. The patterns on his stomach burn and throb, and the muscles underneath keep cramping.

Sam's by the sink, but as he senses that Dean's awake he comes over to the bed, lays a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Lie back and think of something happy. I'm going to wash the wounds out, and it's not going to be fun, okay? Was hoping you'd still be out for it, to be honest." His voice is calming, a close imitation of the soothing tone Dean so often used on him.

And he didn't come empty-handed, Dean realizes as he strains a little to take a look. By Sam's feet is a bowl full of water, and the liquid sloshes softly as he soaks a washcloth in it.

"Ready?"

Dean's not quite sure what he's supposed to be ready for, but he nods, and Sam pushes his shirts up and off over his head, then brings the wash cloth to the skin on his stomach.

The pain nearly knocks Dean out again. The burn intensifies tenfold, feels like acid seeping along his nerve endings, and the only thing that keeps him from bolting upright and maybe even jumping off the bed is Sam's hand still on his shoulder, now pressing hard to hold him down.

"Shh," Sam says, "we gotta do this, alright? It's going to be fine, I've got you."

Three more times, Sam rinses the cloth and brings it to Dean's stomach, and after the initial shock's worn off Dean just hisses his way through it. “What happened in the warehouse, Sam? The hound?”

“They're gone. Between the spell they used for the ritual and the incantation we were going to use to get in, I came up with a reversal. Sent them back.”

“Woah, Sammy, not bad.” Sam grins at the praise, kind of like he did when he brought a good grade home and Dean patted him on the shoulder for it. “And the kids?”

“The hounds gave them all a good scare; I doubt they're ever going to go near that kind of stuff again. And without continued exposure, the effect of the Diviner's Sage is going to wear off with time.”

Eventually, Sam declares that he's done with whatever he was doing, gets up to get a towel and dries Dean off; a few quick swipes, gathering up the liquid rather than dragging the fabric across the wounds.

It takes Dean a few moments to come down from short, ragged breaths. "Okay, now, what was that all about?" he asks once he's got his breathing under control enough to trust himself with a full sentence.

"The pattern on your stomach?"

"Hm?"

"I, uh, grilled the girl who finished the spell, and she said that, together with a poison they dipped the knife in, the pattern's supposed to paralyze you." As Dean's eyes widen, Sam holds his hands up. "Temporarily and not fully, don't worry. It's more of a magic roofie than something that's got a real impact on your body. A little like that stuff some spiders use on their prey, you know? You're still able to move, but the impulses that tell your muscles to move get cut off and they don't get the message."

Sam continues on about nerve endings and synapses, nervous blabbering he has a tendency to fall into when one of them is in some kind of peril, and Dean zones out. His thoughts keep catching on the spider bit, reminding him of a documentary he watched in Middle School, about how spiders paralyze the insects they feed on, inject them with a kind of acid that makes their insides liquefy so they can suck out the whole mess afterwards. It's not a comforting train of thought.

Dean pinches his eyes shut and inhales to steady himself, and Sam touches Dean's face as he senses his distress, stroking his cheek briefly. Any other day Dean would shy away from such a tender touch on principle, but these are special circumstances.

"I just tried to wash as much of the stuff out of the wounds as I could, but you'll still feel some effects," Sam says, aiming for the soothing tone again but missing by a mile. He blinks when he tries to keep eye contact, lips a thin line and eyebrows knitted together; it's obvious that he's getting increasingly freaked out himself.

"Define 'effects'?"

"I don't know, Dean. Paralysis is all I got."

With that, Sam leans forward to bury is face in his hands, and Dean feels the need to do some reassuring of his own. "Hey, come on, whatever. We'll deal with it, right? Takes more than some stupid-ass poison to throw us off our game, huh? "

Sam nods, takes a deep breath. "Yeah. It's probably just gonna be a few hours."

That's what Dean's been kinda counting on, though Sam's skepticism about it has him a little worried, but better not to say that out loud. Instead he goes for, "See? Get ready to be my servant tonight." He tries a teasing grin, and Sam does smile a little in response.

"How are you feeling, anyway? Has it kicked in yet, can you still move everything you want to?"

Dean tests his limbs: all of them still follow his commands as they should. His stomach still aches, burns, and that's keeping him from focusing on any other part of his body, but nothing feels out of the ordinary. "I'm good. I think?"

Sam eyes him suspiciously for a moment, as if trying to figure out if that's the whole truth, then nods. "Okay. Maybe we got it out of your system before it could take full effect, or have any real effect at all." His eyebrows crease together. "Better keep you in a comfortable position, though, in case it's just delayed."

That's perfectly fine with Dean; he's not going to argue against being comfortable. He sits up on the bed slowly, mindful of his wounded stomach, kicks off his boots, gets rid of his socks and stands up to get out of his jeans. When he's done, he lies back down, scoots up on the bed a little to lean against the headboard, and gestures towards the TV. "Find me a western or some porn, get me a cold one, and I'll be all set."

Sam snorts, says, "Get it yourself, asshole." But he starts for the kitchenette anyway. As much as Sam vetoes the hard stuff, beer's apparently still allowed. Not exactly the twelve-steps-way to handle the problem Sam claims Dean has, but he probably knows his brother well enough to not even try and talk him into full abstinence.

He returns with a bottle for each of them, sets them onto the nightstand as he settles on the bed, then passes a beer to Dean. Flicking on the TV, he picks his own bottle up, takes a pull. Like that, he's slightly in the way of Dean's view of the screen, so Dean cranes his neck to look past him.

It doesn't work. He intends to move, his brain's sending out the order loud and clear, but his body refuses to react properly. He tries again, and again, with the same result. "Sam."

Alarmed by the tone of Dean's voice, Sam looks at him, eyebrows raised in a silent question and worry creeping back into his expression.

"I can't move my head. Uh, much." Dean repeats his test from earlier, lifts his arms up from the bed and kicks out with his legs, and all of that still works, but as much as he tries, he can't move his head to either side, can't shake it or nod. He can't discern if it's real or just brought on by panic, but suddenly his whole upper body starts to prickle, spreading from his shoulders downwards. "Oh, _fuck_."

Despite understanding that it's futile, that it won't work, he keeps trying. His shoulders lift off the bed, but his head doesn't quite follow fully, and it's so strange, surreal. Dean feels vulnerable, defenseless, and the knowledge that it's only going to get worse causes his breathing to quicken up.

Sam senses his fear and puts a hand onto his collarbone to still him. "Hey, shh, don't worry. We knew this was coming, okay? Temporary, remember? And I'm right here, nothing's going to happen to you."

"Easy for you to say," Dean snarls.

"Just. Try to see it this way: we'll just stay right here in bed for the rest of the night, watch TV, and when we wake up tomorrow morning, everything's going to be back to normal."

"You sure about that?"

Before Sam can respond, his face gives him away; Dean knows how his brother looks when he scrambles for a lie. As close to Oscar-worthy as he might pose in front of victims and witnesses, he never did figure out the finer points of bullshitting Dean.

Dean tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but the numbness keeps spreading through his upper body, and it only half-works; he's losing control over his shoulders and has to fall back awkwardly.

"Spreading further?"

Making a conscious effort to not even try nodding, Dean answers, "Yes."

And now that it's begun, it's spreading fast. Barely an hour after Dean woke up back at the house, he's rendered almost completely unable to move. Talking gets difficult, too, but by some miracle, he can still push out words through clenched teeth.

Sam's sweet-talking him through it pretty effectively, though. He soothes Dean initial panic away with repeating over and over again that while, no, they don't know exactly what's going to happen, he and Bobby are 100% sure that it will wear off shortly. A few hours, he keeps insisting, and then it'll be over and he'll send Dean on a run for a late night snack so he can get some workout for his limbs.

Gradually, Dean's panic eases, tension draining from him as his heartbeat calms down to a normal, steady pulse and his breathing evens out. They're both still on edge, Dean's mind keeps tumbling into what-if's and worst case scenarios of never being able to move again, and Sam steals glances at him that betray the fact that he's still worried, but the mood shifts into something a little more relaxed.

And even though he's not able to move, Dean can still feel, which is what clues him in to the fact that, worry aside, Sam appears to consider other past-times than watching TV. His hands keep coming up to rub circles into Dean's skin, but what started out as a soothing motion transforms into something way less innocent, way more colored with intent, and his hands keep wandering lower.

"Seriously, Sam. Now?"

Sam looks up, perfectly displayed air of injured innocence, but somehow, Dean's not convinced. Even less so as Sam withdraws his hand, well aware of what gave him away. "No idea what you're talking about, man."

"Sure, course you don't. What is it, Sammy? You want to take advantage of the situation?" Dean wishes he had more control over his voice, croaked out like that the words lack enforcement and humor at the same time, come out wrong.

Guilt flashes over Sam's face, but judging from the way his pupils dilate that's exactly what he wants.

And that’s, wow. Maybe it should make Dean uncomfortable, maybe he should be offended and brush the idea off before it can shape between them, but the thought has his skin tingling in an entirely different way. He can't quite believe it himself, but when he speaks again, what he does say is, "Touch me, then."

Sam's eyes widen, and as the realization sinks in that he's just been given _permission_ , he gasps. "You sure?"

It's barely above a whisper, but it's dark and low and growly, and if Dean hadn't been sure about this before, he'd be now. "Yes."

Taking in a sharp breath, Sam does as he's told. He carefully touches Dean's arms with his fingertips only, lightly, as if he's afraid to cause him pain. "It, uh. Doesn't hurt, does it?"

It definitely doesn't, but there's a strange buzzing underneath Dean's skin where Sam's fingers slid across it; not unpleasant at all, but a way too intense reaction for it to be unrelated to the poison. "No," Dean breathes out. "No, don't worry. Go on."

Sam does. He puts a hand flat on the side of Dean's ribcage, careful not to have it catch on the carvings on his stomach, rests it there for a moment before he strokes it up and down his flank. His eyes keep searching Dean's gaze, hold it; he's completely focused on Dean, ready to catch his every reaction and stop at the smallest sign of discomfort. And that concentrated attention makes something deep in Dean's belly curl; it's eerie, being so completely centred upon, the only thing on Sam's mind in that very moment.

Sam draws his hand back, and leaves in its wake a sensation like the pleasant version of getting zapped. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers and raises his eyebrows in question.

Dean looks back at him, dumbfounded, until he realizes that Sam's waiting for the green light. And since Dean's only tool of communication right now is his voice, it has to be vocal. He croaks out an okay, and Sam tugs them down, puts a hand under Dean's ass to elevate him a little, first on his left, then on his right, in order to be able to push it past his hips.

It's a little embarrassing, not being able to do that himself, no matter the reason. Humiliating, in a way, to have someone else take care of such a miniscule, small thing, and the reality of what it means to be unable to move, to escape, erupts to the forefront of Dean's mind. He almost tries to scoot back, get away, his instincts oblivious to the fact that he can't, but then he reminds himself that this is Sam. Whatever state their relationship is in, however much they might've fought the past few days, he's the one person Dean can trust to take control of him like that.

As soon as the boxers are gone, Sam begins to slide his hands up and down Dean's thighs, along his hips, careful, slow and barely touching, and Dean would squirm if he could. It's not something he usually allows, it makes him feel weird, and Sam knows him well enough to read it in his face. "Nah, hey," he says, smiling so fondly Dean kinda wants to scream. "Let me take care of you for once, okay? Perfect excuse you got there, right?"

Put like that, well, Sam's not wrong. Once the initial dread subsides, Dean even finds that he likes the idea that, for once, he's stripped off any influence on the proceedings. The thought of being helpless - exposed - gives way to the idea of being taken care of, his pleasure Sam's sole responsibility.

Dean inhales, closes his eyes and commands himself to relax, to just enjoy and let himself fall. Ignore everything else, shove all that goes around in his head these days to the back of his mind and concentrate on Sam's hands on his body. On Sam, period.

The slight buzz caused by the poison intensifies the light caress, and every time Sam's fingertips connect with his skin Dean's nerve endings practically vibrate. Sam keeps brushing his cock, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose, and, yeah.

Good thing hard-ons don't involve muscles.

After a little while, Dean's body is strung out with the combination of arousal and anticipation; all he wants to do is arch into the contact, participate in this, touch Sam back. The knowledge that he can't sets him on edge, makes him desperate and turns him on at the same time; he's dying for friction and can't do a thing to get it besides begging. Sam keeps touching him everywhere but where it fucking _counts_ , tantalizing him with brief strokes up his inner thigh and almost past his balls, and Dean's just about ready to jump out of his skin.

Sam, on the other hand, seems to be in no rush to get down to business. He stops to smirk at Dean, challenging and smug. "What do you want? Tell me."

"Fuck you," Dean grits out.

"Okay," says Sam and leans forward to nibble at Dean's collarbone.

"Oh, come _on_."

"Say it."

"Fine. Please?" That's as much begging as Dean's going to demean himself to, but thankfully Sam isn't enough of an asshole to insist on more detailed commands.

The first touch to his aching cock his incredible, and after just a few strokes Dean's groaning and panting. He keeps trying to push into Sam's fist but his body's still on lockdown, and in this state he can't quite discern if that freaks him out or only makes it hotter. It's confusing, that's for sure, his mind triggered into some kind of fight-or-flight instinct every time he tries to move but _can't_ while his body's having a fucking ball, half-crazy with arousal that's fueled even more by the way he toes the line to full-on panic.

Sam gets up to get their lube, then re-positions himself between Dean's legs and starts to carefully pull them apart. Since his limbs aren't actually paralyzed or stiff, they give easily, and Dean gasps at the feeling of his body being moved without his cooperation. Sam stops dead, takes his hands off.

"No, Sam, I'm good. Feels weird, is all."

"You sure?"

"Stop asking me that."

Sam's hands come back to rest at his knees, push them apart inch by tentative inch and draw them up until Dean's legs are spread wide.

And okay, that's a little odd. Not that it's an unusual position, but generally Dean assumes it himself, instinctively in the heat of the moment, not half as aware of what he must look like as he is now: open, ready, on display for Sam to look at and waiting to be taken, all that while Sam hasn't so much as shed his shirt. But it's the good kind of weird, and Dean feels himself harden further at the thought, the surge of lust that he'd feel presented with the sight of Sam in the same position.

It gets to Sam, too, he withdraws one hand and Dean sees him press it to his own cock still trapped in his jeans. His eyes search for Dean's again, and this time Dean gets that he's seeking permission. "Yeah," he whispers. "Come on."

Gaze never leaving Dean's face, Sam reaches for the lube, scoops some of it onto his fingers and massages the spot behind Dean's balls. His breathing goes ragged as he moves lower, arousal painted all over his face, but he stops when Dean gasps at the first finger entering his hole. _That_ is a muscle, and the stretch is widely different to the experience Dean's used to.

But it's not bad. The same effect that made his skin tingle at Sam's touch before intensifies the sensations here, as well, and Dean has to close his eyes against the feeling, the unique pressure of it, in order to keep from coming right then. "Sam, don't stop, please, don't."

"Really?"

"Didn't I tell you to stop asking me that?"

Sam complies, grinning, pushes his finger deeper into Dean's body slowly, adds a second, and Dean's desperately wishing he could move, meet him, urge him on with anything that's not words. As it is, he's left with the choice of either demanding more or relying entirely on Sam to read him the right way.

Dean makes his choice; he moans, closes his eyes, and hands the last bit of control he had over the situation over to his brother. He concentrates on the feel of Sam's fingers moving inside him, crooking, hitting _that_ spot over and over with the accuracy of a longstanding familiarity with the shape of Dean's body, inside and out.

Dean comes fast and on with a soft cry, and it's only then that Sam takes care of himself. He kneels by Dean's side, buttons down just enough to free his cock, jerks himself off, rough and quick and efficient, his eyes pinned to Dean's the whole time. When his orgasm rushes through him, he loses his balance and falls forward, forehead resting on Dean's while he comes down.

Afterwards, Dean barely registers how Sam gets up, moves around and reappears with a fresh wash cloth. Accurately and with care, he cleans Dean up, pushes Dean's legs back together and down, and then curls up in bed beside him.

"See," Sam whispers as Dean drifts off to sleep, "I've got you."

 

***

 

Sam ends up being right; when Dean comes awake the next morning, he's turning slightly and nuzzling into Sam's shoulder before it even catches up with him that he's not supposed to be able to do that.

The movement rouses Sam, light sleeper ever since the wall broke. "Hey, look at you. Told you the effect will be gone by morning."

"Know-it-all," Dean says, bites down lightly for emphasis, and Sam's breath catches.

He lifts his head, cranes up to kiss Sam, and Sam kisses back eager, as if, as much as he enjoyed last night, he's hungry for the counteraction and response.

Sam breaks the kiss, grins at Dean. "Hm, whatever. Told you so." His expression turns mock-challenging, but with a hint of something more serious. "You should listen to me more often."

And hell, no. Dean's not going to let him turn this into a moment. He uses the regained control over his muscles to flip them over, suppressing a wince when his stomach protests the motion, and crawls down Sam's body with the intention to rid him of any conscious thought.

Sam's not having it. He grips Dean by the shoulders just before he's out of reach, holds him still. "Okay, seriously. Thank you."

"What for?"

"For trusting me. Last night."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just sex, Sam. No big deal." He leans forward, sucks at a spot just beneath Sam's pecs. It has the desired effect, Sam lets go of him, and Dean goes back to his mission of shutting Sam up.

Some things don’t need to be talked about out loud: I love you, I’d do anything for you and know you’d do the same for me sound much better when said in their private language. Have a stronger impact when they can prove them.

So yeah, maybe it _was_ a big deal.


End file.
